A Love Story For Molly Hooper
by notime4stopsigns
Summary: Molly Hooper lives a miserable, lonely life. Why can't she meet a good man who actually likes her? Then along comes Spencer Gray...   Spencer Gray is my OC. Other OCs as well. But don't worry. Sherlock and John are in it too.
1. Chatting with Cats and Corpses

Molly sat in the lunch room alone that day. Her friend Susan was busy with her work with the psych patients and skipped out on lunch-again. She was always busy.

Molly sighed audibly. Jim used to take her out to the park when Susan wasn't around. They'd hold hands and walk and he'd tease her and they'd laugh and he'd buy her food from a street vendor and sometimes he'd buy a flower too and dramatically get down on one knee and present it to her. She realized she missed her Jim, even if he really had been a psychopath out to mess around with Sherlock all along. She missed those walks in the park. She hated feeling lonely, despite the fact that she often was alone. Either at home or in the morgue with the cold, dead bodies. Always by herself. Sometimes she'd talk aloud when she was alone, engaging a cat or a corpse in pleasant conversation. They usually ignored her. The live humans didn't pay her much attention either.

She suddenly felt the urge to laugh at her pathetic life but it came out as more of a choking sob.

She winced. Looked down at her pasta salad. Poked at the cherry tomatoes. Ate the noodles but left the vegetables.

"Molly?" She looked up, heart fluttering for a second, until she saw it was just John Watson. Sherlock's flatmate. Friend. She groaned inwardly.

"Yeah, hi. Er-John."

He looked down at her, slightly condescendingly. Or at least that was the way she took it. She knew John was nice, but she couldn't get herself to like him. She envied him far too much. Anyone who got to spend that much time with Sherlock Holmes warranted her passive aggressive wrath.

"I just-Oh this is awkward. Sorry Molly, to bother you. Erm, Sherlock needs some...something to experiment on. He wanted to know if you-and I quote-'got anything fresh'." He sighed deeply and rubbed his face, embarrassed.

Anger flared in Molly's chest. Why couldn't the stupid man have asked himself? How much of a pushover did he think she was? Sending his flatmate to do the tedious job of chatting with _Molly_, oh how _dull_, John why can't _you_ ask her? I'm _much too busy _to interact with someone as _insipid _as that poor, _plain _Molly-girl.

She slammed her palm down on the table picturing the dark haired man she had been so enamoured with speaking the script that was playing in her head.

John started, and then backed away slowly.

"Er-I'll take that as a no. I'm really sorry, Molly, he's been in a terrible mood lately. I'm sure he's hell when he comes to ask a favor."

"You can tell him that he can find his own dead bodies to experiment on! I'm done with being his pet!" She covered her mouth in surprise. She was shocked by her own behavior. The strange angry confidence was still pumping through her blood. "A-and you can tell him that that's not how y-you treat pets in the first place! A quick small treat after weeks of neglect won't cut it!"

John's eyes were wide. He was as surprised as she was.

"All right Molly, I understand, you really don't have to-"

"What an awful metaphor," Sherlock droned, coming up behind John. "Are house pets all you can think about, Molly?" He grinned in a way that made her want to punch him. "Oh, of course, that's all you have at home-"

"Sherlock!" John hissed at his flatmate.

The tall man ignored him and continued.

"And since you really have no where to go, and no one to talk to, why don't you go fetch me some limbs so John and I can be off." As if the words he was saying weren't bad enough, his expression and tone forced tears to her eyes. "We're doing something _important_, which is more than I can say for you."

She didn't move or speak. She just stood there, eyes brimming, cheeks burning, something stuck in her throat-maybe a curse meant to be thrown at the brazen detective, but never reached her lips. She wanted to hide. To curl up in a ball and die in a hole somewhere far, far away.

They left her there, petrified. Sherlock mumbled something about talking to another employee with connections to the morgue. She didn't hear anything after that other than water rushing past her ears. It was like she was drowning in her own thoughts.

The worst part was the he was right. She had no one. Nothing but house pets. Her two cats. That was it. Her sister, Tate, lived nearby, but like Susan, she was always busy. And she was married. Molly didn't care much for her brother-in-law. She held some resentment for her younger sister for getting married first. It just wasn't fair. Nothing was fair and she had no one.

She suddenly realized she was sobbing. In the middle of the cafeteria. Everyone was either looking at her or trying very hard not to look.

Molly took the rest of the day off. It started raining as she walked home. She was soaked when she reached her apartment. She let herself in and cried into a pillow. Finally she decided she needed to take a shower. There was no hot water. She remembered she still needed to have the water heater fixed. She gave up on the shower and went straight to dinner. Nothing in the fridge. She had been planning on going grocery shopping after work. She fell asleep on the couch, hungry and grungy.


	2. Ugly Couches and Unexpected Visitors

"Yes, I know-But I'm working, Tate...No...yeah okay... Alright if you insist. I'll be there. But why can't it be a different time?...I really-well, no...no. Okay then. Yeah, bye."

Molly hung up and collapsed onto the horribly yellow couch her parents had forced upon her when she moved out. Tate was throwing her husband a birthday party on Friday. She did not, for the life of her, want to spend an evening at her sister's house, praising the obnoxious fool that was her brother-in-law, Joshua. There could be no greater punishment. But she had nothing else to do that night, as Tate had so generously pointed out. Not even work went late enough to be used as an adequate excuse. So she would put on a frumpy dress so as to not outdo her younger sister (Tate forbade her to wear anything that made her look "too sexy" because of the fact that Joshua tended to be a little less than faithful), and she would smile and pretend to care that the man was turning another year older.

She sighed and went to her closet. She saw all the nice things she could have worn, and then grabbed something she might wear to a funeral. Or a nursing home. Did people dress up to go to a nursing home? Well in any case, this would work. Polka dots and heather gray. It was cute enough, just not the thing to wear to a party. No doubt Tate would be wearing something tight a revealing. And blue. Tate always wore blue. She used to 'strongly encourage' Molly buy all pink so that they would look like sisters from some old sitcom. One in blue, the other in pink. Their mother had quickly joined in. And so, that was the color Molly's closet mostly contained.

Junebug appeared, quick as a shadow, and mewed at her impatiently.

"Yes, darling, I'll fed you in a bit."

The tortoiseshell glared up at her and then rubbed her cheek against Molly's leg affectionately.

She sat down on the floor and took Junebug into her lap. She combed through the cat's fur with her fingers and closed her eyes. It was a comforting sensation. She soon let herself fade into a daydream. One day she would have a husband of her own. They would live in France together and have a beautiful daughter. Maybe two beautiful daughters. She thought of her sister and their relationship. Hmm, one daughter then.

"Another Wednesday night, and nothing to do, Junie."

As expected, she received no response.

Finally, with another sigh, she got up and went to the kitchen.

"Here, kitties! Dinner time!"

Junebug and Chrysanthemum pranced into the room.

"Now, Chrys, don't eat out of Junie's bowl," she scolded, nudging the dark tomcat with her foot. Tate and Joshua had teased her about how she named her cats.

"Chrysanthemum is too feminine for a male, Molly!" her sister had laughed condescendingly. "You can be so silly sometimes!"

And then Joshua had made some sexist joke and they laughed and kissed some more.

Molly had just stood there smiling, feeling like an idiot. Just like yesterday in the cafeteria. She was just a joke to everyone wasn't she? Did they realize she had actual feelings? That it really did bother her to not have any good friends or a nice family or a boyfriend who didn't turn out to be a psychopath?

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

She went to answer it, wary and slightly confused. No one ever came to visit her. It couldn't be her sister, she had just called. It wasn't Susan-she was working the night shift tonight in the psych ward. Jim? Molly almost laughed at the thought.

She looked through the peephole. Of course. Why hadn't that been her first guess? She was a daft as she had been told. She opened the door reluctantly.

"Good evening Molly, I was just wondering if you could get me into the morgue this late-a man's life depends on it."

She snorted with laughter before she could stop herself.

Sherlock Holmes narrowed his eyes and titled his head to one side.

"What's so funny?"

Molly shook her head.

"Would it be murder if I refused?"

Sherlock smiled.

"You could say that. It's just that I-"

"I don't owe you anything."

"Yes, that's true-"

"And after that lovely conversation in the lunchroom the other day, how could I say no?"

She grinned and giggled. _I'm losing my mind,_ she thought.

Sherlock's smile faded as hers grew.

"So you won't?"

Molly busted out laughing. She couldn't help herself. This was _her_ life. Her stupid life and it didn't make any sense. She would take the abuse from a person and want to die one day, and then the next that same person would come smiling, asking for a favor and she couldn't say no.

Why couldn't she say no?

Her laughs echoed into the dark empty street looming behind her visitors and faded away.

"Molly...?" John peeked around Sherlock.

"Sod off. Both of you."

And she slammed the door in their faces.

**Finally, I finished chapter two. I've spent most of my time writing the other later chapters and editing my other fics. Oops. Oh well. Here it is. Hopefully I can get the third up by next week. Sorry for such a long wait!**


	3. One Night, Molly Dear

**Hey guys! Third Chapter finally! Woohoo! Arg I need to to better than updating every other week. Oh well. Quality, not quantity right? So tell me how you like this one. Alright enjoy!**

Thursday. One more day until three hours of living hell. As in the party.

Molly sighed. Drank her coffee. Made a face. She had somehow ordered it black. What had been on her mind?

_Black, two sugars._ Damn. It was one of those days. She had had enough of them to know that there was no escape from the thoughts of the handsome consulting detective until the next morning. She'd have to wait it out in single-life misery. Maybe if she worked hard enough she'd forget...?

No, cataloguing the cold, lifeless bodies only reminded her of Sherlock Holmes even more. It was silly really, for her to still feel this way about him, and she continually scolded herself for letting her feelings make themselves conscious. But she really couldn't help herself. It would take awhile to forget about him, especially with that face-and it didn't help much that he always came back and was sweet and flirtatious and lead her on until he got what he wanted. She knew it was just an act, but to receive that much attention from the detective felt too good to ignore.

"What you need," said Susan-not too busy today-in the lunch room, "Is a good one-night-stand. Just go to a club, find someone attractive, have a quick shag, and send him on his way. Easy. No time to think about he-who-must-not-be-named"-Susan and her Harry Potter references-"when you're getting down with some bloke."

"I'm not kidding," she kept saying. "It always helped me."

"You are such a-"

"If you say whore, I will punch you."

Molly didn't stop laughing the whole lunch hour. And _this_ was why she put up with Susan and her incompatible work schedule.

* * *

><p><em>Oh God.<em> This was probably not what Susan was talking about at lunch.

"Here maybe if I-" She shifted her weight a bit.

"OW!"

"I-sorry..."

"Well at least you finally made it to my crotch. Though your knee isn't exactly-er-pleasurable. First time you've ever done this?"

She scowled into the dark.

"The one-night-stand part," she replied haughtily. "-not the sex part."

He laughed. It was a bit obnoxious.

"You could have fooled me," he said.

_Ugh!_

"I-I don't think this is going to work out." She practically leaped off of her 'one-night-stand-that-never-would-be'. "I'm going home."

"Oh-erm-alright."

She was out of that hotel room like a cat stuck in a closet. Er-meaning the way they run out once finally released. Her brain was all frazzled from the embarrassment and excitement that had collided in that room.

She was a bit far from home. _"Too far to walk, anyway..."_ she thought as she stepped out into the street, the road slick and shiny from the rain.

"Molly?"

She whirled around to face whoever had just called her name.

"Molly Hooper!"

"Oh!" She hadn't recognized him. What was he doing dressed up like a beggar in front of a ritzy hotel?

"Waiting for a suspect," Sherlock said, answering her unasked her luck too. Why did he have to show up at all the worst times? It was like his purpose in life was to make her miserable.

"You'll freeze to death out here in the rain," she commented, despite her vindictive thoughts.

He shook his head and-surprisingly enough-smiled at her. "I've got my woolly hat," he said tapping the knitted mess on his head. She leaned forward, examining his face, proving her theory- dilated pupils and flushed complexion.

"You're high."

He seemed mildly surprised that she had noticed.

"Yes," he replied warily.

She hesitated.

"You're always different when you're high."

Sherlock's expression darkened.

"How would you know-"

"I can always tell when you're high. You used to do it a lot before John. I just never said anything."

He nodded, still in defense-mode, looking down his nose at her as if she were some dangerous animal that could attack any second. She looked back at him contemplatively.

"Sherlock..."

He averted his eyes, guessing what she was about to ask.

"Sherlock, where's John?"

He was looking at his feet now, but she didn't miss his wince at the sound of his flatmate's name.

"It makes me feel good, Molly. The cocaine. Everything is so clear and I can really think. I don't feel human anymore. It's so much better. I don't feel hungry or..." He trailed off.

"Where's John?"

"Not with me at the moment. Molly, I feel ecstatic."

"I should call him to come get you. I don't trust you in a cab."

"Molly, I don't want to go back. John will be upset." He moved closer suddenly. "Can't I just stay with you? Please? Please, Molly? Just for the night."

Her heartbeat quickened. "Stop it, Sherlock, you're scaring me. This isn't you."

He touched her face gently, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"What are you doing all the way out here, Molly Hooper?" he murmured in that deep voice that made her knees weak. He was trying to distract her. Make it harder for her to think straight. She wouldn't let him do it this time. Molly was done with being manipulated. But the question...she felt herself blushing with embarrassment.

"C-Can't you guess?" Damn, she let her voice shake. His smirk pulled her out of his trance enough to let her take a deep breath and pull away from the cold hand on her cheek.

"You're at a hotel, a nice hotel, but not too expensive. You probably weren't planning on staying the whole night-especially since you're only carrying your purse. You could have left your over-night bag in the room, but that's not it because your hair is a mess and you look quite disheveled. If you were simply going out, you'd make yourself up. No, so why are you here? You wouldn't waste money on a hotel for no good reason because you live here in London, and you're practical. So most likely you were with someone. But who? A friend? No, a friend wouldn't get you looking that ruffled up. A lover? Sure, but you'd be in a much better mood that you were today if it was long-term, looking forward to the meeting, and that expression when you left the hotel-you attempted you have a one-night-stand with a tourist and failed. You left in disappointment." He paused to take a breath. When he didn't continue, Molly nodded awkwardly. His face lit up. Even awkward approval is approval. Intellect relishes approval.

"So the question is, what event has caused this sudden change in behavior? Molly Hooper would never agree to sex with no strings attached. You're too much of a prude."

She frowned. He ignored her.

"So you must have been prompted. You aren't drunk, you aren't especially hormonal. But stressed? Yes. You certainly are. Perhaps you were looking for some quick stress relief. But Molly Hooper, can't you think of a safer, less complicated way of doing that?"

"My friend suggested it to me."

"Ah, yes. Susan, isn't it?"

She nodded. He paused, searching her face for any clues he might have missed. Doubtful.

"You're not just stressed, you're depressed. Lonely." Her eyes widened just enough for him to be satisfied with his impeccable deduction skills. "Good, good," he said. "That makes two of us." He chuckled looked back at her, waiting. Pleading. She realized that his earlier request was still standing. He wanted to stay over. Anything to avoid going back to his flat. They must have had a fight. Or maybe Sherlock just didn't want John to see him when he's high.

She shook her head. "You arse." He smiled triumphantly, already knowing what she was going to say next. "Alright then, come on."

Just one night.


	4. Where Is My Mind?

She fumbled for her keys as the stepped out of the taxi. She wanted to get this night over with as soon as possible. She didn't want to have time to fantasize. No, it'd just make her weak.

She blushed when she opened the door, realizing once again that Sherlock Holmes would be in her flat. Hell, he was going to sleep in her flat. She refreshed the thought, and again and again, and each time the blushy-stomach-droppy-happy-nervousness washed over her. It was a wonderfully unpleasant feeling. She could feel his footsteps behind her, only slightly heavier than her own, calling forth a creaky noise from the floorboards.

"Well, here we are," she declared, a bit too loudly.

"Here we are..." he repeated, examining the place already.

They stood there in the small sitting room, her looking at her feet awkwardly, him looking everywhere but at her, his hands in his pockets. He was completely relaxed. Some of that probably came from the cocaine, but he really was completely comfortable in her home.

"Cats," he murmured cryptically.

"Hmm?"

"You have two cats. Where are they?"

"Oh." She looked around. "I don't know, probably in the washroom. Is it significant?"

"No."

She breathed in deeply and nodded. Silence stretched on.

"Er-are you hungry?"

"No." Of course not. Cocaine, Molly, remember?

"Okay."

She moved into the kitchen anyway. He was still looking around. He began opening drawers. She didn't stop him. Most were empty anyway. She pulled out leftover pasta salad that Susan had left in her fridge the other day. Molly honestly hated the stuff-terrible childhood memories-but was too hungry too care. She hadn't eaten since lunch and it was already nearly midnight.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you hate your sister?"

She whirled around, not expecting such a personal question.

"I don't hate my sister."

He smirked as if to say 'Bitch, please.'

"You have pictures of all your family members, but the one of your sister and her husband is shoved in a drawer," Sherlock explained.

"We just...had a little argument."

"It's been there for a while."

"It was a while ago."

"And you still haven't put it back up with the rest of your family? You really must not like her."

Molly snatched the photo away from him. She glared at him and then glared down at her sister's smiling face. Sherlock continued his examination.

"Oh but look here..." He plucked another frame from the side table and showed it to her. "This is you and-her name's Tate, isn't it? She's the Tate in your phone contact list."

"How-" Sherlock handed her her cell phone. He must have taken it in the cab.

"So, in this picture, you two are all smiling and happy. Hmm, no ring in this one. You resent her for her marriage. But you don't like her husband, so it's not that she stole the man of your dreams, is it?"

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He'd figure it out on his own anyway.

"Molly."

"Er-yes?"

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two." Perhaps she should have been bothered by him asking her such a frank question, but she didn't mind. She supposed it was because she knew it was purely for him to make sense of her life. He had no intention of teasing her about it. He wasn't in the mood. _Thirty-two and totally single, how sad, Molly dear,_ whispered a voice in her head that she recognized as Tate's.

"How old is your sister?"

_Ah, of course._ He figured it out quicker than she had expected.

"Twenty-seven." He smiled at his little feat of assuming correctly. She continued. "Married right after graduating. She says they were high school sweethearts but I don't believe that. She would have told me if she had fallen in love." She was now talking more to herself than to him. "Wouldn't she have told me? We were still close then, weren't we?"

"Hm."

She had almost forgotten he was there.

"Sorry, I'm rambling. I'll shut up."

"Mhm, good."

She flinched at his reply and turned back to her late dinner.

They didn't talk for the rest of the evening, but they sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. Molly stared at her food or out the window, and he stared at her. She couldn't bring herself to meet those eyes and end the silence, so she didn't. She began to regret bringing him here. Maybe she should ask him to leave.

"I-"

"Hmm?" He blinked as if seeing her for the first time.

"I don't-I'm not sure if this was a good idea-"

It was just a look he gave her, but it was enough to shut her up again.

Finally he spoke.

"Music?"

"Er, excuse me?"

"Would music make this less awkward? John always put on music when they have nothing to..." He trailed off and the look in his eyes was far away and almost hopeless.

She looked at him curiously.

"They?"

He looked up at her. Confused?

"Oh. His dates. I was referring to his dates."

Molly narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Yeah well, this isn't a date," she replied curtly.

He suddenly looked horrified.

"No, no! I know! I know." He sighed. "That's not what I meant."

As if to escape her response, he jumped up out of the chair and bounded over to her sound system. 'Sound system' meaning her tiny iPod charging dock.

At first he picked up her iPod and went through it, looking for something good to play.

He was obviously not satisfied in the slightest with her selections of Lady GaGa and movie soundtracks. The look on his face would have been comical had she not been a bit hurt by his disapproval of her taste in music.

Finally he gave up on her and pulled out his own iPhone.

"I didn't know you were into music," she commented stupidly before remembering that he played the violin.

He looked up at her, annoyed. "Who isn't into music?" he asked rhetorically, causing her to chew her lip in frustration.

He shook his head at her and plugged in his iPhone.

"And play."

Echoing 'ahh' noises emanated from the speakers, forming a melody. They got louder and a classical guitar joined in, the musician plucking at the strings rapidly, but smoothly.

_With your feet in the air and your head on the ground..._

"_Where Is My Mind_, performed by Yaov, featuring Emily Browning," Sherlock recited.

_Try this trick, and spin it...yeah._

"Ah," she murmured, watching him carefully.

_Your head will collapse._

"It was originally by the Pixies, but John only likes this cover," he continued.

_But there's nothing in it...And you'll ask yourself-_

"Care to dance?"

_Where is my mind?_

Molly put down her fork and, heart beating rapidly, stood up and took his hand.

_Where is my mind?_

She smiled shyly. He didn't return the expression.

_Where is my...mind?_

He pulled her close-but not too close.

A woman-most likely the aforementioned Emily Browning-joined in singing.

_I was swimming in the Caribbean..._

They moved slowly. It was more like being caught up in a swaying hug.

_Animals were hiding behind the rocks..._

A thousand thoughts were running through Molly's head. The heaviest one of course was: 'Why the hell is he doing this?'

_Except the little fish, but they told me-_

However, Sherlock gave no answer the question in her head. She supposed he just didn't care enough to explain, for surely he knew exactly what she was thinking.

_He swears, trying to talk to me, talk to me..._

Sherlock tightened his embrace and his head fell to rest on her shoulder.

She melted into his arms and inhaled the scent of his aftershave. Time sort of disappeared for her.

_Where is my mind?_ The man and woman sang the chorus together.

Then a thought hit her and pain in her chest erupted, as if her heart had just been cryogenically frozen inside her.

_Where is my mind?_

"Sherlock...?"

_Where is my mind?_

No reply.

_Way out in the water, see it swimming-Where is my mind?_

"Sherlock, this is about John, isn't it?"

She felt him tense up for a moment, and then nod into her shoulder.

Molly pulled away.

"Alright, then. Spill."


	5. Smiles, Sighs, and Spencers

The following interrogation went something like this:

It wasn't just cocaine was it?

No.

What else?

MDMA.

Why?

The elation.

No.

The feeling of social intimacy.

For John.

Sigh. Yes.

…

I thought I might try and tell him my feelings tonight. I didn't want to feel so anxious.

You really do care about him, don't you?

Mm.

You do.

Glare.

Sigh. Sad(-ish) smile.

They were sitting on the ugly yellow couch. Sherlock was curled up next to her, his arms and a pillow separating his long folded-up legs from his stomach. Occasionally he'd squeeze the overstuffed-plush-thing tightly as she asked him questions.

He was surprisingly compliant, and she thought maybe he was only being so easy to talk to because he really needed and wanted someone to vent to. Poor Sherlock. She knew he didn't want her pity, but she also knew what it was like to keep everything bottled up inside. She had experienced it often enough. He was absolutely lovesick over John. Ridiculously so. And he didn't even understand why.

"He's a completely normal human, Molly, but he's...different. I don't know."

"Sometimes you find yourself attracted to someone even though you know it doesn't make sense," she murmured, subtly hinting at her infatuation with Sherlock. He didn't seem to pick up on it, or else he didn't care. He stared stonily at the wall. "Sometimes it comes from closeness, or a special connection you feel with them, just because you have something in common. You can relate to them, even if they don't know it."

"What? That isn't applicable to my relationship with John."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Got...offtrack."

He stopped listening and made a sort of whining noise, like an unhappy dog. He let himself fall into her, head on her shoulder, his dark curls tickling her nose when she turned to look at him. He half closed his eyes, signaling to her that he was done talking, like a machine shutting down, though not quite turning off completely.

She sighed once more and turned on the telly, wanting to find escape in an old rerun of _Jeopardy!_

Sherlock answered all of the trivia questions correctly, until they introduced categories centered on pop culture. He growled in defeat as Molly smugly answered every one of _those_ correctly. He pouted quietly for the rest of the night. She fell asleep a half hour later.

_Work __tomorrow_, she thought hazily as she drifted into unconsciousness. _Oh __and__ that __party. __Damn._

But she'd have time to worry about that in the morning.

* * *

><p>When she woke up, Sherlock was gone.<p>

_Typical,_ she thought sourly, a bit hurt he hadn't said goodbye but not very surprised.

She sighed-she realized she did that a lot nowadays-and dragged herself into the shower. She thought about how strange yesterday had been: started out as another miserable Thursday, quickly became an awkward disappointment, and finally then ended with an unexpected sleepover.

Well at least it was Friday. Maybe she could convince herself to forget the party at her sister's house and that way not feel guilty about skipping out on it. Nope, she dreaded so much she had put it on her calendar. Hell.

She'd see Susan today and they'd go out for lunch. Surely. She'd be able to tell her friend all about her houseguest and the softer, slightly gooey, side of Sherlock Holmes.

And they did, they went out to lunch to Susan's new favorite coffee shop. Said the barista fancied her and gave her a free biscotti every time she came in. The two did quite a lot of flirting as she ordered a soup for her and a sandwich for Molly, so much so that the dazzled man behind the counter kept forgetting Molly's order. When they finally got it sorted out, paid, and sat down at a table so that Susan was in the perfect place to make eyes at the barrista, a young man parked his bike outside and came in, the bell making a racket as he opened the door. He saw Susan and smiled shyly at her.

"'Lo, Miss Baker. Nice to see you here," he said, his voice soft and dreamy and nervous, almost like a child's.

Susan's eyes crinkled as she smiled just as awkwardly.

"Hi Spencer. How are you?"

"Fine. I'm-fine." He seemed uncomfortable. Then he looked at Molly, and when he really looked at her for the first time, his face changed. "Sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Spencer. Gray."

She shook his hand. It had a strange texture, calloused, but soft and firm.

"Hi, I'm Molly Hooper." She liked his eyes. They were shining when he looked at her, and a sort of pale blue, as if they were once a deep cerulean but he spent too much time in the sun and they eventually faded. Oh gosh, she was getting poetic. And about his eyes. That's not a good sign.

They stared at each other quietly for a few more seconds and finally he roused himself.

"Well, I-er-better get my lunch," he laughed because he had nothing else to do. "That lunch break won't wait for me to finish staring rudely at pretty women."

"Oh, hah-no, no, I-" she suppressed a giggle, but couldn't stop the blush. He turned away reluctantly and went up to the counter.

Susan leaned in, a huge grin on her face.

"Well, that was interesting," she whispered.

"I-I don't know what that was. I just-"

"Mhmm, honey I know..." Susan winked over her coffee. She did that a lot. It reminded Molly of her grandmother.

...Which probably wasn't a very nice thing to think about your best friend, but honestly it was a good sentiment, considering her grandmother was the only person in her family she had really liked being around.

When Spencer finished paying, he left, but not before waving at the two women sheepishly.

"Isn't he sweet?" Susan prompted.

"Y-yeah, really sweet...and the way he was looking at me...I didn't..." She swallowed, watching him get on his bike and kicking off into the traffic. She turned back to Susan, who was looking at her and then the man on his bike, quickly fading into the distance, and then back to Molly. "How do you know him? He sounded kind of French-is he French? What does he do? Does he come here often? Did he-"

Susan's hand interrupted her-what was that even? Oh she needed to calm down or it won't work out like every other relationship she's had.

"Molly. Listen to me." Susan looked her fiercely in the eyes. "No, I don't know if he comes to this cafe often. He grew up in Paris but he's English and has lived here in London since he came here for University. I know him because we occasionally talk...he's a friend I guess, but close enough that I know everything about him, so don't ask. And yes, he's available. Go ask _him_ your questions."

She then withdrew her hand and smiled innocently as she sipped her coffee.

"I think it's time to get back the hospital."

Molly nodded and followed her back. She was quiet the rest of the day. Even when she got home and started to get ready for her slow and painful death, she didn't once stop thinking of those watercolored eyes.

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><p><strong>And end of Chapter 5!<strong>

**Wow Spencer must be really important if he made her forget about Sherlock! Hint hint. Oh Lord I'm turning into Nathaniel Hawthorne here. Okay anyway, yeah Spencer. He be some hot stuff. Most questions like how Susan and Spencer know each other will be answered later, and stuff about Sherlock and his strange visit should be too-like "WHY DIDN'T HE TELL JOHN ABOUT HIS FEELINGS LIKE HE HAD PLANNED TO?" Well why don't you all guess and maybe I'll tell you why. ;) Sorry it took so long to update, but this time I really have an excuse. Exams. They just finished though, so there will surely be another chapter soon. Things to look forward to: The Party (DUN DUN DUN)****, more awkward Spencer, Sherlock and John side story, BAMF Molly, some disgustingly corny romance, and maybe, just maybe, some lovin' in Paris. :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I will be updating soon. Love, Val.**


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